[Untitled] (Names are welcomed.)

Place the dotted X's on my eyelids
in the form of candle wax.
Make it lavender.
Coat my fingertips with Morphine
and I will paint your name
in the lining of my cheeks.

An enormous Aurora Borealis
lies in the fibers
of these follicles of straw.
They rise erect,
delegating the shimmering dust
of imperial gardens and remembered kings
along the shoulders of this flannel.
Wise men gather on the crown of this cranium,
joined by only the worthy of countrymen,
and witness the courtship of galaxies,
a symphony of starshine.

Ironically I can no longer smell the cinnamon.
This armoire holds my seams in place.
I am pressed for time in this burlap.
I stitched on a smirk for this day,
when you would find the attic,
far too late for latency and lackings
but in perfect punctuality
for my second venture.

Would you sit opposite me on the drywood
and roll back and forth the resonance
of our former vibrancy?
Toss me ladders and waterfalls,
bowling pins and hoops of magma,
Lob the tragedies over your shoulder.
Finally, slide me your dagger.
I will swallow the denunciations of the pasture,
and make an incision from collar bone
to belt buckle,
and plunge wrist-deep into a carcass of cotton.
Such black and deceitful irony.

Well up, dear firefly.
Yes, let the throat coarse with warmth,
for there is that in your despair.
Divulge a raindrop or two,
but I beg of you,
Capture the majestic deliverance above my forehead
and release me,
so that I may consume the supernovas
or evaporate into the ethos of Rhetoric.
The lights and colors
that waltz in my hair
will never leave your subconscious.
You have my word